Sunday, September 18, 2011

The Nomad-2 (Vijay)

Vijay’s father Meher was a man of shortcomings. He was a drunkard, never gave himself an option of education and had no such plans for his kid too. Woman as expected in the village catered to cattle, they had no say in the way of running a family. Meher used to wake up early, have a glass of tea, and go to the lake outside the village to do his morning chores. The lake was a bathing place for cattle of the village and the great amount of keekars and bushes around the lake made it an ideal place for shitting purposes. The place around the lake was divided into sections. The Brahmins had a different sect reserved for them, the Jats (who were also the zamindars over here) had a huge area cordoned off to themselves and the others had the rest. From here he used to go to sweep the streets. He was supposed to clean the shits coming out houses but never allowed to enter the houses. When he used to be thirsty, he was supposed to shout for water, outside the house he was sweeping. A head to toe covered woman or a man donned in white kurta pajama used to come out with a jug of water and pour water from a height of three to four feet into a separate glass kept reserved for him. There were days when due to absence of milk at home, tea was served to him in a similar manner. He used to return home at noon time to have a bath followed by lunch. He used to sleep in the afternoon and by the time Sun used to set Meher used to pour his third glass of drinks.


Signs of being different were visible from Vijay’s birthday. One of the rarest things worth observing was- he never cried; even the shortage of milk at home did not make him shout and whimper. His mother used to tell the village folks that the last time she saw him cry was when he came out of my womb. Village ladies used to whisper in soft breaths, “Oh, God … is he mentally challenged?” His mother used to break up such remarks with a horrible fight. She used to feed him once every morning and he never used to ask again. One morning when Vijay was six months old and his mother did not get up from the meshed cot, he fell down his cot, crawled to the next house across the street paved with kiln bricks and started crying. The neighbor cobbler lady on seeing him at the gates came out running to his house to find his mother pale white. She had died in the silence of the night.


Poor Vijay was motherless ever since. The neighbor lady on request from Meher took up the task of feeding him daily. Vijay started to walk when he was eight months old; by the end of nine months he used to walk across the paved street seeking for food.



Vijay had an olive radiating skin in contrast to dull dark complexion of Meher. His eyes were akin to his mothers, light brown. He had already reached the age of two and had not spoken a single word. Children by the age of nine to ten months start saying their first word- Maa. A worried Meher had consulted umpteen hakims and healers only to find a non-assuring answer. All of them used to say, “he is probably a slow learner. He will speak in due time.” On a morning, when Meher was out for his duties the village milkman came to their house to find two year old Vijay fidgeting with the knife. He hurried to remove the knife from his hands and was dumbfounded to find an oddly crafted flute lying by his side. Probably he had learned to use the knife by looking at the cobbler family. The milkman thought of the name “Murlidhar” crossing his mind, and to his amazement Vijay picked up the flute and offered it to the milkman speaking his first word, “moorliii”.


The only class which can compete with women in delivering news is the Milkman; and the best way to know if some news has been spread properly is to go for a haircut. The barber has access to all the gossips circulating the community. He knows who is having an affair with whom, he knows who is getting married and he also knows which couples in the community are on non-speaking terms. Sooner than expected, Vijay became a common topic on the tongue of the barber.


By the time Vijay reached five years age he used to sit outside the village temple and play his flute. The same flute which he had crafted when he was two years old. There were significant changes in the flute since then. He had removed the wood bristles that hang out of improperly carved wood; constant friction by wiping it with a piece of cloth made it look decent and gave it a polished look. But the most astounding thing to happen was when he played it for the first time. The temple’s priest, who was offering prayers to Ram and Sita idols, was taken to a hallucinating world. He forgot his prayer and as if walking in a dream came and sat beside Vijay. For an hour Vijay played the flute non-stop and the priest listened to it, as if it was Vijay who was offering the Morning Prayer to the Gods of the temple.



The lower caste of the village was allowed to enter the temple only on Sundays. Vijay never entered the temple; he hated his people not being allowed into the temple. Everyday he simply sat at the white marble stairs and played his flute. The mellifluous tune that emanated from his lips landed directly on the heart. It mesmerized the brains and the poor brains used to ask his tunes what to do next and his tunes used to order them not to stop breathing. The music emanating was serene and peaceful. During rainy seasons when there used to be rains, torrential rain as if it would drown the whole of village; when water level of the lake used to come up to alarming levels raising concerns of crops getting flooded, Vijay used to play his flute and a melancholy used to sweep the whole village. His melody used to describe a land where there is no hope, where only destitute and unhappiness breeds. His music used to bring the whole of village to a point where their hearts used to give a flutter and seek repentance of their life long sins. Hardly any men, women and children were left who weren’t dragged on the verge of tears. Calmly the rains used to deplete and the trance generated by him used to subside.


However how long could all this continue? How long could the upper caste bear a sweeper’s son in the limelight? It had to stop and eventually it will stop. Everything that has been created will be destroyed, worth observing will be- destroyed on its own accord or untimely brought to destruction. It is said three witches weave the fabric of fate, and whenever there are three women involved things cannot be smooth and perfect!

[Posts will updated weekly.]

Saturday, September 17, 2011

The Nomad-1

Kanwaali is an old rustic village, untouched by modernization, in the heart of Haryana. The village is surrounded by acres and acres of rich, fertile and cultivable land on all sides.

(pic by AK)

This land, owned by the richer section of the village, is ploughed and seasoned by the poorer section of the village. Clout comes with money, and the richer section has formulated traditions which benefit them. Over a period of time these traditions became unwritten but adhered laws. The women of the village still follow the pardah system. They keep their faces covered with “duppata” from each and every men of the village, save their husbands. They have their duties assigned. In the morning they cater to cattle, in the noon they cater to cooking, in the evening they again cater to cattle and cooking and in the nights they cater to their husbands. Swift black uncovered drains, resembling rivulets, carrying wastage water from households run by the sides of homes to join the main bigger drain outside the village. Mehar, an old man in his sixties, prevents these drains from clogging.



Mehar a childless man till now was on cloud nine these days. His wife was expecting after many unsuccessful years of unsuccessful trails. She was in the ninth month of her pregnancy. Besides Mehar but for different reasons, the whole village prayed the child to be a boy. Mehar wanted a boy to keep his lineage alive and to bring another helping hand to his meager income and the village prayed for a boy to find a replacement who would prevent their drains from clogging.

The second month of the year 1990 witnessed Mehar becoming a father. He named his child Vijay after the name Amitabh Bachann used to take in most of his films.Each and every child borne in Indian villages falls under one of the two categories. The first child is more out of curiosity when newly married couples are trying to fidget with their newly found amatory explorations; the second child and the trail that follows is on account of desire for a boy or the absence of Idea’s 3G in villages! India has a population of over 1.2 billion; let us give Abhisekh Bachann some credit. To be frank and tell you the truth, Indian’s don’t give birth to children- they mint them as Federal banks mint money and call them gifts from god. Even god must be amazed to hear this and would be retorting back with, “what did I do?” and I can vouch my life on the reaction and hard time the God’s wife (and in most cases wives) would be giving them. If Lord Shiva was on facebook his update messages would have been something similar to, “Sleeping empty stomach on the icy Kailash floor tonight. Sati refused to give me food after some x villager in y village called his son my gift!” The mockery of population is to such an extent that the government happened to pass a law about limiting children per family to two, and the chair person of the House had four children and one of the veteran member boasted of a complete football team.

Most of the families, I am not counting the ultra rich in the village, have enough means to decently educate one child, but insufficient means to insufficiently educate and feed their siblings. Mehar a drunkard by habit and a sweeper by profession neither had enough resources nor savings to bring up the boy with a fine education. The amount he earned per day was exactly to suffice his family two meals and hooch for himself at night. Was Vijay supposed to be flushed down the gutters as his father; be nothing more than a speck of dust that happens to gather after a storm and be wiped out clean by the first rain? Was he destined to do nothing but stay illiterate and sweep the drains of illiterate villagers, or had fate decided to unleash a mutiny? Only time will say!!!

Saturday, August 13, 2011

FREEDOM…

Here I am caged by the iron bars of my window pane
The unfathomable bars with a tortured mind
Living in a world concealed in oblivion and gloom
Gazing the outside world with my startled eyes…

The turmoil outside making scary noises
The trees mocking at my solitude
The roof tops echoing in unison the void in my life
Yet my consciousness is oblivious to it…

Here I lay enslaved by my own misery
Afraid to be found out
Anticipating to be laughed at my weak heart
Having no disguise to hide my tears…

There comes the rain splattering down
Tip- toeing its way to meet its soul mate
Roaring its way, surpassing all the obstacles
Declaring it to be the master and not a slave…

I want to bathe in the very essence of its spirit
I want to feel its unruffled drops
To revive my freedom in its wake
All I want is a chance to live…

Friday, June 10, 2011

The sea beneath the island...

She shivers in the wind like a last leaf on the tree. The wind raises electric. She’s sweet, warm and looks exquisitely stunning in her crimson gown with her curves exposed slyly. He lets her hear his footsteps; he saunters forward and wraps his arms around her. His warm breath brushes past her curly locks to send shivers deep down her body. The air has awe in itself. He grabs her shoulder to a firm grip and suddenly shakes them violently. His mid night blue eyes flare with so much rage. His jaw clenches tight, he raises his fists and hits her so hard to knock her down to the ground. She could taste blood in her mouth. A perfect countenance was smeared by nasty bruises.
When life offers you a dream so far beyond any of your expectations; it’s not reasonable to regret when it comes to an end.
Abhay was a guy you could not but fall for. His mid night blue eyes set deep above the high planes of his cheekbones, russet coloured skin, jet black tousled disarray of spiky hair and tall-masculine physique made him stand out like an archangel amidst the vile human clan. Half the college population craved for him (the fairer sex) while the other half despised him out of envy. He didn’t have many friends in the college owing to his high profile repute except one who had accepted him with all his flaws; Shravani. Shravani, a teenage girl with brown curls marked by golden highlights, topaz coloured eyes and enticing curves; a stimuli to arouse the ogler in you. Abhay and Shravani were like two poles of magnet, never apart. Both of them seemed to cherish there out of the world friendship. They had created their own world; a world so perfect with no boundaries, no responsibilities and no one to be answerable to.
Everything seemed to fall in pieces until their life was jolted by a tornado named Priya. She joined the college in mid semester. She seemed like a beautiful angel descended from above with the innocence of a neonate in her obsidian eyes. She entered the college draped in a white salwar kameez. Her aura seemed to cast a spell on anyone and everyone. Even Abhay seemed to have fallen for this beautiful angel. He wanted to change himself for her, desired to make her a part of his yet so solitary life. He craved for spending more and more time with her. Time started rolling and the spark of love between Abhay and Priya started growing into a flare. Their closeness created a wedge between the friendship of Abhay and Shravani. Abhay still cared for their friendship but Shravani’s heart was jolted by a hurricane of emotions which were beyond her comprehension. Her friendship had taken the form of obsession and irrational craving. She held Priya responsible for stealing Abhay from her (as if he was her monopoly). Shravani did see the concern of Abhay for her but that seemed to not suffice her craving. There was a conflict between her irrational emotions and her valued friendship. Now the very same Abhay’s touch made her heart thud erratically. She had fallen in love with him and there was nothing she could do to deny it. Her love made her reason to let him have his happiness yet whenever she saw Abhay and Priya together her heart was overwhelmed with an unbearable ache. She had to do make a decision.
25 December; it was the prom night, the last day of the college. Abhay was still unaware of the feelings which Shravani had for him though Priya could sense the turmoil. She sympathized with Shravani and trusted her reasoning. But the vicious night had a plan of its own. The sight of Priya cuddled in the arms of her beloved aroused the flare of rage and envy in her. Seeing Abhay out of sight, overwhelmed by wrath, she started accusing Priya of having stolen her love from her. She referred her as a ‘perpetual parasite in their relationship’; a girl no more worth than a whore who enticed Abhay by her nasty yet alluring tactics. Priya could not contain such an insult in front of the huge gathering and she fled with tears streaming her eyes. On returning Abhay heard what had underwent in his absence. His jaws clenched tight and he went out to look for Shravani and make her repent for what she had done.
There she was standing still in her crimson gown contrasted by the sylvan surroundings and engrossing darkness. She shivered like a last leaf on the tree…
The only gift Shravani got from her futile love was nasty bruises smearing her face. Though she regretted insulting Priya in a fit of anger, she could not regret falling in love with Abhay. In the time being Priya too had come to stand besides Abhay in his most distressing moment of life. A distressing and piercing calm spread all over. The tranquil was disrupted by a gun shot. Pools of blood spilled over.
What could have happened in that iota of time? Who lost his life in the pangs of vicious, dark love? Could it be Priya who paid the price of having stolen Shravani’s most prized possession? Or would Shravani have killed Abhay so that if he couldn’t be hers, he could also not be someone else’s? Maybe Shravani thought of killing herself only to become insensitive to all the pain to lie in the womb of never lasting slumber and give her love the only thing she had- her life.
Can jealousy out rule a person’s rationalism to the extent of making him commit a murder? Or is it the ‘sublime love’ which reigns supreme?
I leave the answer to the readers to decide what that crucial moment might have brought with itself…

Sunday, May 22, 2011

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (xvii)- Maya speaks

It has been an year since you left us. A week after you went, our child was born, and yes it is she. She has small eyes of yours but thankfully rest of her features are on me. She has a beautiful smile and on seeing me goes to a bliss spree spreading her lips to form two dimples. I believe “the two dimple smile” has become a family heirloom now. Dad and I have named it Shatabdi as you wished. Thank you for the wonderful gift.

She has started walking now, and calls dad as “Daa”. She hates water like you and I am having troubles making her bath daily. Dad agrees that you were a nuisance too! Last week she was admitted to hospital on account of fever; dad did not sleep for two nights. She is all fine now and sleeping with her granddad.

Nishith and his wife came to lunch last week, and his wife is a chatterbox. She made me laugh for two hours at a stretch. Aniket and the babe got married, though the babe looks more like a bob now. Manish is engaged, but his habit of ogling is annoying and unchanged. Davesh has stopped making friends who are girls; now he has a girlfriend. Neeraj and Maanvi have kids now, but they usually go for non-cooperation movement with each other once every fortnight.

Do you remember the talk about our children names? When you mentioned about Shatabdi, for a moment I felt kind of jealous, but ultimately I realised it was me for whom you fell. All the moments that you spent with me since college, all you had in your heart was me. So I didn’t mind it at all. Moreover, I am more beautiful than her, so I am kind of okay with it. As a matter of remembrance, how pure your feelings were I have agreed to name her Shatabdi. Though I have to agree our daughter Shatabdi is more beautiful than me.

Over the last one year I have made few realizations. One is I love you for sure. If it wouldn’t have been for our daughter I would have ended my life too. She reminds me of you; makes me realise you are present along with me; and gives me immense strength to fight the reality.

Second realisation is, it was your presence around me that made me feel I am beautiful. The affectionate gaze with which you used to look at me, used to make me feel I am special. I miss your gaze. Thank you for loving me.

The third realisation is, out of all the requests you made to me, I won’t be fulfilling two. First being not to cry after you died. I had promised not to cry, but I have been breaking this promise and shall keep on breaking it. It is something out of my control.


(Painting by: Jaspreet Kaur)

Second thing you had asked was to remarry. I won’t be remarrying even for all the happiness in the world. I cannot bear to replace your thoughts with a third person. Would you have remarried, if I would have died before you? I am as sure as the Sun is to rise tomorrow, you wouldn’t have. Then how can you be so ruthless and non-understanding to ask me of such a thing? Man can love God even though he has never seen him; can’t I love you for the rest of my life? Especially when, I have seen you, I have lived with you and I have loved you. The time I spent with you, though small in the time frame try to see it through my eyes. It was an eternity of time to know someone and to love someone!

Now, I must say good bye. I am on the verge of tears and if dad sees me in this state he starts crying too and remains upset for the rest of the day. He wishes to remember you fondly, to remember what a loving son and a loving husband you were!

Did and shall always love you,

Maya.



(This is the last post of the chronicles.)

Friday, May 20, 2011

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (xvi)- The Setting Sun

Maya is into the sixth month of her pregnancy and she looks extremely sexy with the stomach. Dad is too much concerned about her safety and has made both of us shift from the first floor to the ground floor. He has disallowed Maya from climbing stairs and from going to office. He has even refused her to cook and goes nuts when anyone does things that might remotely upset her. He himself doesn’t smoke in the house anymore! All Maya is doing these days is sitting in front the T.V., morning and evening walks and yogic “Anulom-Vilom”.

Last week had been a terrible week for me; both on the work front and health front. I had two seizures in which I lost consciousness. Probably the work stress is taking a toll on me. However, yesterday while coughing, a lump of blood came out of my mouth and compelled me to visit the hospital. The doctor did some blood tests and x-rays and called me an hour ago for a consultation. I think he will advise me to some days of bed rest.

Doc: “Hello, Mr. Ajay. How do you feel?”

Me: “Fine; just a bit of headache. Will eventually get over I assume.”

Doc: “I am sorry to break this news, but please take some rest and spend time with your wife.”

Me: “Yeah, the work pressure has become too much. I will take the next week off!”

Doc: “No, you don’t get it. Please stay calm. You are suffering from terminal leukemia.”

Me: “What?”

The whole world seemed to have been uprooted by this heavy blow. The blow carried the whole building along with the foundation. “How can this happen? There must have been some mistake with the report?”

The doctor with an empathic face looked straight in my eyes and said, “we have checked the report thrice and I am sorry to say that is how it is! All you have is two months or max three! ”

Images of dad, Mom, Enya, Maya, our child started shattering alike a glass breaking upon falling on a concrete floor. So many years of love and affection were being snatched from me with this single blow.

Somehow I reached home from the hospital. Maya came up to me and hugged me tightly. To keep her away from unwanted tension I hadn’t told her about the seizures. After seeing her sweet two dimple smile I don’t have the heart to tell her about the Leukemia.

I settled the insurance papers, pensions and office work in the next two days. On one evening when Maya had gone on a walk with the neighbor lady, I told dad about my leukemia. Ever since my birth I had thought of dad as a person who could bear anything. I had never considered him being old and weak. Even mom’s death he had stoically accepted it, and came out of it. Will he ever recover from my death? Today, after hearing about my condition, deep furrows appeared on his forehead. I realized even he has turned old. I could feel how weak he was. The pain and grief was palpable and etched on his face. His hands were shaking. Maya completely unaware of the talks returned back from her walk.

Dad: “Beta, come. Take the remote, and watch some T.V.”

He slowly got up from the sofa and went to his room. He closed the door slowly and did not open it till the next morning. Maya took dinner to his room, but he calmly resent her back without opening the door. Maya got the hint something was wrong.

Next morning after dad came out of his room; Maya came and sat on the sofa beside me.

Maya: “what is it that’s bothering both of you?”
I had been expecting this question. I hadn’t mustered the courage to lie to Maya and by telling her the truth I couldn’t ruin her.

Me: “Nothing; just feeling off the rocker these days.”

Maya: “I have lived with you for more than three years, and I have loved you each and every moment I have spent with you. When you happen to even sneeze, the sound is ricocheted in my heart. Damn, don’t insult my love and intelligence. I have observed the missing insurance papers. What is going to happen?”

She took and my hand, and kept it on our unborn child. “For her sake speak the truth.”

Me: “You cannot bear it! Better let it stay buried till it can.”

Maya: “Truth is always preferable to lies; and by avoiding the truth you will bring a forced but tensed silence in our lives. Living with the silence will be much more unbearable than the truth itself. I do realize the truth will be painful but by telling me now it will be less painful than when it opens in future.”

Me: “Please… The truth is unbearable, but please keep a strong heart. I am dying of leukemia!”

The grief that swept her that day is inexplicable in words. Dad was trying to console Maya, and Maya was trying to console him. I sitting in between them, amidst hugs and tears realised how much I am going to lose!

[I died on 28th September, 2018. Death wasn’t a pain. It came as easy as falling down to sleep, however this time there was going to be no Maya to wake me up. This time there won’t be Enya to fight for the T.V. remote. This time there won’t be dad to reprimand me for oversleeping. This time there won’t be Nishith to speak to me of his troubles. This time there won’t be Sanu to selflessly share my loss. This time there won’t be Davesh to make me laugh; and most important of all there won’t be Maya’s beautiful smile which spread across her cheeks like a bridge joining two dimples.]


Thursday, May 19, 2011

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (xv)- The Supreme Happiness

Maya and I did not wait long to get married. Maya being a non-Haryanvi and my family being from Haryana had certain issues about the marriage. Especially since the place I belong to makes monthly news over honour killing. Dad was all cool about Maya, however his brothers and sisters were boasting off about their honour and rich tradition. Despite their best efforts, and not on one but several occasions, I had refused several marriage proposals that were sent by them. Even for Enya they had seen some veterinary doctor, who if given a black dress would have resembled the monkey man!

Dad’s sister: “Bhaiyaa, you have given too much freedom to your children. Who is he to decide whom he shall marry? Are we his enemies to think good about him? He can get thousand girls from our place and from our own caste. ”

I stifled the urge of retorting back with, “Like the monkey man you saw for Enya?” It was my marriage; I had to live with the girl throughout my life; and there they were intervening in my marriage! When they did not even know how I felt for Maya. Laughable matter being, I cannot even distinguish between the two sisters my father has.

Listening to their talks I felt how fanatic and sadist people are. I pitied their children! I wished to thrash their ears and ask them where is the honour in bloodshed and kills? Where does this honour go when they go for female foeticide? My father's elder brother has three sons, that too born after seven female abortions. Listening from him about honour was frustrating. Each and every word he spoke reeked with hollowness, and if it wouldn't have been for my father I would have insulted him. My dad though belonging to the same family had a refined thinking and Enya was a standing example.

Marriage was fixed in the month of February. The relatives were called in the marriage for the sake of formality, their presence and their absence meant the same to me. Dad wanted them to be present. Enya was too happy about me getting married, and she was more excited because it was Maya. She could be sighted at times chatting for hours with Maya.

Maya and I are happily married for two years now. Today Maya had preferred to stay at home. She felt a bit giddy and nauseated. Enya and his one year old son are home for summers. I left the work early today.

On reaching home Maya came to me and sat on the sofa beside me. She took my hand and started caressing it.

Me: "How do you feel?”

Slowly she kept my hand on her stomach, and a crooked smile broke on her face. She was pregnant!

The happiness I was experiencing was of a different nature. It was palpable and could be seen shining on my face. In thousands of dreams that I had dreamt of Maya and me, I had pictured us sitting on a beach and the waves washing our feet. In front of us used to be a small girl, our daughter, building castles in the sand. Images of a small fairy running to my arms started playing in my mind. Have I already decided the child to be a girl?



Enya was standing at the door of the hallway and was looking at us with moist eyes and smile on her face. I went up to her and if speaking to myself in a reverie said, "I am going to be a father! Did you hear that?" Enya replied in a soft tone, "Yes."

The house on lane number 42 was expecting a new member!